1835
by graceofgod
Summary: Back in 1835, when Halley's comet was overhead, the same night those men died at the Alamo, they say Samuel Colt made a gun. A special gun. He made it for a hunter - a man like us, only on horseback.
1. Chapter 1 Houses Built on Sand

**Beta'd / made generally way, way better by Primrose. 'Cept I played after she gave it me back, so no promises!**

**Disclaimer. Owned wholly and completely by The Scrapyard. **

**A/N 1:This was one of the longest stories I've ever written – not in length, but in the time it took to complete. It was a weird, weird experience when I first posted it over on UnGen, and it's just as strange now, several months later. But it was really great fun to do something a little different, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I've found I still do! There's no Winchesters around, so if you're looking for Dean and Sam, sorry, you won't find them here! What you will find is the usual bucket of angst and a healthy dose of action and even a little mystery. (I hope...!)**

**As always – this story is complete, and will post weekly.**

_Another life has ended; another chapter done_

_Another man has gambled in the game that can't be won._

_We all must face the Master, our final trial to stand,_

_It's there we'll learn the meaning of houses built on sand._

_The Ballad of Charlie Birger – traditional ballad._

_~~1835~~_

_**Southern Wyoming**__**, **_

_**November 22**__**nd**__**, 1835**_

He watched the firelight flicker over the blood on his hands, ground into the cracks in worn, dry skin, into the bruises on his knuckles. He was sitting so close to the flames that steam rose from his boots in thin twists of pale fog, but he still shivered as he curled his fingers into a fist; spread them again, over and over. He ducked his head, lifted his hands to lace them together across the back of his neck, pulling down as he pushed the top of his spine against his palms, stretching until vertebrae popped and crackled.

"Hellfire, kid."

He tried to hide the start, knew he didn't have a chance and rolled his head to glare at the taller man leaning on the door frame on the far side of the room. The fire light spilled over the broken, rotting floorboards, stopping at his feet so that he stood in shadow. His eyes glittered in the dark, the ring on his left hand flashing as he folded it across his chest. One hand dangled loosely at his side, fingers brushing the gun holstered at his right hip. He traced the doves carved on the butt idly, restlessly as he stared at the younger man drop his head again.

Both froze as something screamed outside.

"Is that…"

The leaning man cocked his head to one side, listening as the eerie, bloody sound ripped through the night again.

"Cougar."

The older man's fingers tightened around the smooth wood of the butt, skimming over the trigger as a second scream echoed the first, a third and a low growling seeming to shake the boards under their feet. He looked back at the young man squatting by the fire, staring at his hands again, flexing his fingers.

"Well, shit."

He shoved away from the splintered frame, brushing dust from his arm as he crossed the room in three long strides, stooping at the pile of split logs. Hefting a chunk of dry, seasoned wood he tossed it into the fire, scowling at the sparks that leapt up the chimney. The younger man yelped, flinching back and falling to the floor with a thud.

"Reade!"

"Pay attention, kid. You wanna get out of this; you gotta be ready when they come. Not starin' at your damn hands like a dyer's daughter."

Pale blue eyes skittered over his face, sought out his hands as he tucked his thumbs into the belt slung low over his hips and gritted his teeth. The kid looked scared, looked downright terrified but that wasn't what made the hunter huff out a breath and lean against the wall beside the fire, propping one elbow on the rough slab of wood that served as a mantle.

"Did what'cha had to, Sam. You know it."

He watched the young man nod slowly, reluctantly.

"You hadn'a done it, neither one've us'd be breathin' now. Them things don' stop, they jus' keep comin' 'til you put 'em down."

"It was… _he…_"

"They made their choice, kid. No-one forced 'em to follow that path."

Too-bright eyes met his, distant and regretful. Dazed.

"I killed him."

Reade hesitated, rocked back on his heels as he chewed at his lip.

"Yeah," he finally growled. "You killed him. Now you _listen _to me, kid. Three years, you've known what's really out there. They're comin' after us because we know. Somethin's takin' hunters out and it's usin' things like them out there to do it. So you killed somethin' that looked like a man? Time to grow up. It wasn't a man. Once, maybe. Now, it was jus' somethin' after your blood. Kill or be killed out here in the dark, Sam. Always has been, now more'n ever. They come for you, you kill 'em. They go for your family, you burn 'em out, leave 'em with nowhere to hide. That's the only way we're gonna win this war."

"I never wanted to know."

His lip curled and he shoved away from the fire, the flames too hot against his skin, searing him, scorching him. His boots thudded against the boards, wood groaning under the force of his stride. He stopped in the door, braced himself with one hand against the frame, still warm from his body heat minutes before. Twisting, the hunter looked at his fingers, ivory against the dark, sooty wood, felt the younger man's gaze on him.

"I know," he muttered. "An' I'm sorry for my part in it."

Colt's laugh, bitter and cut-throat sharp followed him into the dark. He swallowed hard, crossed the small space that had once been a bedroom, skirting the remains of rotted furniture easily. His shadow was twinned, one shifting and ruddy in the firelight, the other faint and silvered in the pale glow from the window. The hunter leaned against the rough wooden wall, tipped his head back to stare up at the vivid streak of light slicing the sky in two.

"No such thing as coincidence," he murmured, lifted a hand to the supple leather around his neck, pulling it out from under his shirt and running it through his fingers until he caught the ring threaded onto the tie. The matching ring on his finger caught against it, a soft _chink _against the quiet crackle of the fire.

_They're not just chasing us._

He dropped his gaze to the woods that surrounded the cabin, the overgrown fields between the walls and the tree line thick with shadows that moved counter to the light clouds scudding across the sky. There were enough dark shapes slinking through the scrub to make the whole scene surreal, like a badly drawn zoetrope he'd seen once in the city, stuttering from real to strange faster than he could blink.

"What the hell for?"

His fist clenched around the ring as he muttered the same old question to himself, finding no more answer now than he had the countless times of asking over the last year. Dull edges bit into his palm as anticipation crawled under his skin. He found himself wishing the things out there would just attack.

"Reade?"

The hunter didn't turn as he answered.

"Yeah?"

"What's goin' on?"

"Wish I knew, kid."

"They… they're hunting us. Right?"

"Yeah. I think they are," he sighed, tipped his head sideways until it rested against the thick, rippled glass, fog reaching out from the contact.

"Why?"

Reade closed his eyes, just for a moment of quiet and solitude in the dark. He dropped his hand from the ring to the gun on his left hip, angled for a quick cross-draw. The rough edges of the unfinished carvings caught at his thumb as he traced them. He pursed his lips, decision made in that instant.

"Sam, you need to finish this thing."

Colt took a hesitant step forward but didn't lift his hand. Reade slid the gun free of the holster, the draw smooth and easy as he flipped the revolver, held it out butt-first towards the younger man.

"We're gonna be needin' it soon."

He waggled it a little, watched Colt reach for the gun, the blood ground into his skin with oil and powder. _Hunter's hands, _he echoed a years-old thought in his head. _Damn kid's got hunter's hands._

The gunsmith hefted the revolver, eyed the pepperbox still holstered at the hunter's side.

"Is that enough to hold them off?"

Reade shrugged carelessly.

"It'll have to be. Whatever's drivin' 'em…" he trailed off, not sure how to articulate the formless tension coiling in his stomach. He knew, bone-deep _knew _with a certainty that shook him to the core, that whatever had driven them here was evil. As Colt turned, already muttering over the gun, he remembered listening to a preacher once, little more than a child himself.

'_Evil walks among us and you shall know it when you find it.'_

He knew it now.

"We have to stop it," he murmured to himself, leaning against the window again, watching the shadows gather and dance, out of time with the wind-driven clouds.

_**Wade, MA,**_

_**29**__**th**__** October, 1833**_

"DROP!"

He pulled the trigger as he roared the command, no more time to do anything other than hope that the kid heard him. The gun bucked in his hand, hard, pulling to the left and he knew before the smoke cleared that the shot was wild. Swearing, he dug in the pocket of his coat and ran forward, cold iron rough against raw fingers as he fumbled the shot into the barrels.

"Sam?"

Nothing answered his call and he slowed, peering through the mist, straining to hear through the blood pounding in his head.

"Samuel? You there boy?"

Something snarled in the white, a shadow there and gone again before he could aim and Reade curled his free hand into a fist, cursing himself, the kid, the sheriff who'd locked away the rest of his guns.

"Shoulda let this whole goddamned town get _eaten,_" he growled, jogging on through the fog. He thought he'd reached the spot where the thing had cornered the kid but there was no sign of monster or Colt.

"_Sam!" _he hissed, felt the wind shift behind him and threw himself forward frantically, knowing all along he'd be too late. That thing was fast, eerily quick, almost as if it could be in two places at once. Fire striped across one shoulder and he gasped as he dove to the ground, instant heat trickling down his back. He rolled as soon as he hit the dust, biting back a cry as torn skin pressed into the dirt, the pepperbox warm in his hands as he fired the one shot he'd managed to load, point-blank into the thing's face. It screamed and twisted away, disappearing like the mist had eaten it and he let his head thump back against the ground, panting.

"_Reade?"_

The hunter grinned, rolled towards the whisper.

"Over here kid. Stay down and watch your back."

He narrowed his eyes at the shadow that approached through the fog, blinked hard as grey crept in around the edges of the world. The shade grew long arms and a wild mop of hair above wide eyes, scared but lit with a kind of wonder all the same. In the months that he'd known the younger man, he'd never seen that awe fade and although it sometimes made him feel old and tired, he still welcomed it. It made the long nights seem lighter, the load of guilt and cynicism he carried more bearable.

He smirked, waved his empty hand in a tired salute as Colt crawled to his side.

"Reade? Are you okay?"

"I'm just fine, kid. Help me up."

He held up a hand, let the younger man haul him from the ground and sucked in air as the slashes across his left shoulder pulled tight.

"Godammit," he growled, clenching his jaw so hard he thought his teeth would crack. He twisted aside, coughed harshly, bitter acid filling his mouth as his hands began to shake. He spat, rolled to his knees, right shoulder bumping against the kid knelt beside him. The contact was warm in the chill fog and he leaned into it a little, tried to catch his breath, letting his head drop. Beside him, Colt shivered, twitching as he tried to look everywhere at once.

"Slow it down, kid. You'll hear it comin' 'fore you see it."

The kid flinched, huddled closer and Reade cursed silently.

_How in the hell did I end up with a greenback on a hunt like this one? Gonna get the both of us killed._

He sat back on his haunches, thumbed another round into the stubby cylinder of the pistol and whistled breathily through the gap in his front teeth. Colt stilled, listened, chuckled quietly and Reade smirked.

"What is it?"

Twisting to peer behind them, the hunter hesitated, shrugged slightly to himself and confessed.

"I have no idea."

The kid froze, shoulder rigid against his back, not even breathing. Reade counted his heartbeats, scratching at the exposed firing pins of the rounds with one nail, the tracery of the blessings painstakingly engraved on each one a faint reassurance against his skin.

"You have no idea?"

"None at all," he drawled, narrowing his eyes as the fog swirled. He drew his feet up under him, shifted to put his back to Colt's and lifted the pistol.

"Do you know how to _kill _it?"

The hunter shook his head slowly, squinting as he listened to the faint scuffling in the mist. He dropped his head, cocking it to the side, pulling in a slow, even breath. He tasted rank fur and carrion on the damp air and wrinkled his nose in disgust, his finger curled against the trigger.

When it came, it came from the side in a rush of claws and teeth and a howl that reverberated through his chest as it exploded out of the fog. He lunged back and sideways, throwing out an arm to send Colt flying away from its charge, ducking under the massive paw that swung for his head. He hit the ground, rolled once and shoved away again, straight towards the beast, barely hearing a faint cry behind him as he slammed into it, jammed the gun up under its jaw and pulled the trigger. The hammer fell, the spark of the first pin firing igniting the next, the chain-fire jolting the gun in his hand as all five rounds fired together. The pistol slipped from numb fingers, clattered smoking to the ground at his side as he scrambled back on all fours, wincing as the beast screamed. It seemed to shake the world, tearing the fog apart in tatters around it as the beast reared up, black blood spattering the dust.

Reade crouched, buried his head in his arms against the sound, feeling the vibration of his answering scream in his throat but unable to hear his own voice. He strained to see through the tears blurring his eyes, watched the beast stagger and fall, the gaping hole the shot tore in its throat wreathed with smoke as the consecrated iron scorched the unholy thing. He sucked in air, gagging on the taint of charred meat and twisted, searching for Colt, not sure if he should be relieved or worried when he saw the kid sprawled senseless on the ground a few feet away.

Slowly, the scream faded to a ringing in his ears, his skin tingling in the quiet. Unfolding himself, he crawled to his gun, still smoking, the barrel warped and buckled by the chain-fire. He shook out his hand, looked down at the fresh burns covering the side of his palm, thumb and trigger-finger with red, raw skin. Tightening it into a fist he grimaced, left his gun on the ground and shuffled to the carcass, burying his face in his elbow as the stench hit him. Forcing down bile, he held his breath, dropped one hand to the knife on his belt and poked the thing in what passed for a shoulder. His finger sank to the third knuckle, came out covered in gore and he retched, heaving into the dust until there was nothing left to come up.

Shaking, he rolled away from the mess, pushed wearily to his feet and stumbled to the figure still lying motionless in the empty yard. The hunter hummed softly, nudged at the younger man with one boot, the same quick, tuneless melody he'd whistled minutes before as he slouched and waited.

"You're humming 'The Unfortunate Rake'? Really?"

Snickering, Reade turned and walked to the fence ringing the yard, catching himself against the weathered palings as the foggy world tilted under him. He licked dry, cracked lips, gritted his teeth as someone came up behind him. Steady, sure hands gripped his biceps, pulled him away from the fence and led him, stumbling and half-blind to the stables. Colt eased him down to the pile of hay they'd taken turns to sleep on earlier and slipped the hunter's coat free, folding the shredded, bloody wool neatly. His breath caught as he saw the torn skin through the hunter's ruined shirt, three long, ragged stripes across the older man's shoulder.

The gunsmith pulled out his knife, slit the cotton away, feeling the other man shiver as the cold, damp air touched his skin. He reached out, snagged the tattered blanket they'd used during the long wait for the beast to appear and spread it over Reade's back, leaving his injured shoulder exposed. As the sun fell, the hunter had set out water and bandages, neither man speaking. Colt dragged them closer, rolled one length of linen into a pad and soaked it, laying one hand against the older man's arm.

"This might sting," he warned, bit his lip as the hunter buried his head in his other arm, tension rippling the skin under his hand as he wiped at the slashes. Reade shuddered, pink water running down his back as Colt worked, the silence only broken by their ragged breaths.

The mist thinned, the night breaking as the gunsmith wrapped the last length of bandage around the older man's chest. He sat back, looked on as the hunter rolled stiffly to his side with a whispered curse, sweat streaking his pale features.

"What killed it?"

The hunter frowned, blinked open one eye to fix him with a glassy, weary stare.

"I shot it. You were there," he rasped and Colt winced, shook his head.

"You shot it before and all that did was make it angry. Angrier, anyway."

"Oh."

Reade closed his eye again, shifted uncomfortably as he continued.

"Consecrated rounds."

The gunsmith waited until he couldn't hold the question any longer.

"Why didn't you just use them straight away?"

He watched a muscle jump in the hunter's jaw for a moment before Reade held out a hand, palm flat and open.

"Leather pouch in my coat. Mustang colours."

The younger man reached into the gory wool, dug around until he found the white-and-red bag, dropped it into the other man's waiting hand. Reade fumbled with the thong tying it closed, spilled a single round into Colt's fingers. The gunsmith looked at it, the iron smoothed and carved, tiny blessings and prayers and sigils circling the metal.

"That's the las' one I got. Take about a month to make. Each," Reade murmured. "I don' use 'em 'til nothin' else works."

Colt stared at the round sitting in the palm of his hand as the other man turned awkwardly, sinking down into the hay, face twisted away from the light with a weary sigh.

"What if it wasn't the rounds?"

"For Chrissakes, Sam –"

"Wait. What if it wasn't the _rounds _that were sanctified?"

"What?"

"What if it was the gun?"

The hunter's head snapped up, dark eyes wide as they met his and Colt felt a thin smile spread his lips at the stunned look on the other man's face.

"What if you had a gun that could kill anything?"

_**Southern Wyoming**__**,**_

_**November 22**__**nd**__**, 1835**_

A low voice filled the quiet, whispering on the edge of hearing, skating over his skin like icy fingers, like a thousand white-hot needles. The hunter shivered, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end as the chant rose, peaked to a rough cry and fell silent. He stared out of the window, the shadows finally still, their unwavering attention more unnerving than the inhuman motion of before. The thick, roughly squared logs seemed transparent under their gaze, two dozen pairs of red eyes watching him through the walls.

Reade growled under his breath, shoved irritably away from the window and moved to the empty doorway. He glared through the narrow grille set into the main door of the cabin, the glass that covered it nothing but dust on the floor. The shadows watched him through the slats. Slouching against the frame, he watched the figure silhouetted against the fire. Colt hunched forward, fingers quick and easy as he carved away wood, shavings tumbling to the floor at his feet. The gun in his hands gleamed dully in the light, highlights winking at him.

"I'm working as fast as I can."

The hunter blinked, the only sign of surprise at the weary complaint spoken to the fire.

"They ain't gonna hold off much longer."

"The silver will kill them, won't it?"

He laughed softly, wondered what happened to the scared boy who watched the things come to kill him with wonder in his eyes.

"Yeah. But it'll take a few shots each. And they won't give me that much time."

"I can do it fast or I can do it right."

The younger man looked up at him, blue eyes calm and solemn, hands still carving away at the pentagram taking shape on the butt of the revolver.

"I know," Reade sighed, stalked back to the window. For an hour he prowled from window to door and back again, one hand always resting against the dove-carved pistol on his hip. Slowly, as the younger man whispered incantations, power built on the air, turned it thick and ripe with a smell like rotting fruit. Static snapped between the hunter's fingers as he tucked his thumbs through his belt, glowering through the window. The figures outside moved again, slowly, gathering together and giving voice to their own quiet chant that rose and fell in the dark.

He heard the sadness in it, remembered the stories he'd heard about them, remembered the stories he'd told.

_They were people until they took a bad path. Their tribes ran them off, disowned them for the things they did to gain their power and now they wander. They travel alone, hunting to survive, trying to find enough power to return to their home._

He watched the skinwalkers begin to dance, always in shade as if the thin moonlight wouldn't fall on them. Lifting one hand, he pressed it flat against the thick, rippled glass, leaning into it as the cool surface fogged around his skin.

"This isn't right," he whispered. "This whole damn mess is _wrong."_

It wasn't a new thought, but it still dried his throat, made his palms sweat as much as it did the first time he'd had it, over a year before. He curled his fingers in against the glass to make a fist, knuckles white as he ground them into the thick pane until it creaked softly. The same old guilt uncurled, it had taken him so long to see the pattern, cost so many lives before he realised what was happening and put word out.

_Watch yourselves. Something's coming for us, for all of us._

The deaths had slowed but never stopped, creatures they thought they knew and understood suddenly strange and unpredictable. They were a loose knit community, living in the shadows, talking to each other through letters left with saloon owners and a few lawmen who knew what really lived out there. News travelled slowly but piece by piece he began to understand, began to map the deaths into a bloody spiral centred on a tiny, empty spot on the map. When he'd seen that, finally _seen _that there was a centre to all of it, he'd remembered the gunsmith's promise.

'_You said you could make me a gun that'd kill anythin'. Well, now's the time for it.'_

"I shoulda known. I shoulda figured it out," he muttered to the skinwalkers, watching the stamping, twisting movements. The hunter rolled his shoulders, felt the pull of old scars and his back bowed, weary beyond measure. He was _tired, _the last year spent running, fighting a losing battle, trying desperately to buy enough time for Colt to finish the piece. He wasn't sure anymore, if even ten years would be enough.

The dance slowed, changed as the men dropped to all fours, the skins on their backs rippling, spreading, growing to cover limbs that twisted out of shape. Reade backed away from the window, calling over his shoulder as he drew the pistol.

"Sam, they're comin'."

The steady _scratch _of the gunsmith's knife paused, came back faster and the hunter took another step back, put his shoulders to the worn doorframe, eyes flickering between the door and window. His heart thudded against his ribs, blood pounding in his ears as each breath rasped in his throat, shallow and quick.

It tasted rank, the air heavy with a smell he knew as well as his own. He snarled, thumbed back the hammer and lifted the gun in one hand, delving into the saddle-bag hanging from a crooked nail driven into the wall. The book was old, ancient leather scratched and scuffed and he felt out the strip of raw hide marking a page without taking his eyes from the window. The brimstone stench grew thicker, faint growls rising outside the cabin, rumbling through the thick walls as he dared let himself hope.

_Maybe this time it's here and I can send the son-of-a-whore responsible for all of this back to Hell._

Before he even had time to finish the thought, the door shattered, shards of wood flying into the room. He ducked, heard glass exploding behind him, snapped off two shots at the mass of fur and eyes clawing their way through the ruined door and spun, saw the last splinters of crystal fall, half the wall torn away with them. Two animals slinked over the low, ragged remains of the wall, more shifting outside and Reade whispered a curse, stepped sideways and reached out. Grabbing a handful of wool, he jerked the younger man to his feet, dragged Colt with him as he backed to the far wall, through the door to the third, tiny room of the cabin. The cougars snarled at them, three more scrambling over the carcass jammed in the doorway, the pair in the other bedroom shaking glass from their pelts as they prowled through the doorway. They screamed, the sound shaking into him as he fell back, slamming the door between them, a confused glimpse of four cats leaping for him before the wood trembled with the impact. The fetish dangling from the frame rustled, a few fat sparks trailing crimson in the shadow; muffled, pained yelps making him grin where he sprawled on the floor.

Behind him, the gunsmith's knife began to _scratch_ again.

_**Cutter Hill, NH**_

_**February 19**__**th**__**, 1832**_

As entrances went, it was one of his most dramatic. Staggering in from the storm, drenched in rain, leaving bloody footprints behind as he stumbled to the bar, backlit by lightning that silvered the deepest shadows in the dusty saloon. Catching himself against the counter, doing his best not to look as if it was the only thing holding him up, the hunter pointed at the bottles lining the mirrored wall, carefully avoiding his own reflection. He watched the barkeep snatch the whiskey from the shelf, splash three fingers into a grimy glass and thump it onto the table, backing away, bottle forgotten in his hand.

Joshua Reade downed the liquor, sighed as it burnt into his stomach, dropped the glass back to the counter and turned, leaning against the bar to stare out at the empty room. There weren't many folks interested in drinking in Cutter Hill these days. He laughed roughly; bit off a groan as the motion jarred aching ribs and sighed, dropping his head to prop his chin up on one hand, gazing wearily over the battered tables.

When the second glass of whiskey slid to his side, he slid his eyes up to the man clutching the whiskey bottle in trembling hands, quirked a brow in query and the barkeep twitched a nod at the corner of the room. Reade lifted the glass, drained it and spun it in his fingers, watching the lightning shatter against the facets. Rolling his neck until it cracked loudly, he glanced sideways, saw the young man sitting alone in the corner start and jerk his own stare down. Reade nodded slowly, shot the barkeep a glare.

"Keep 'em comin'," he rasped, pushed away from the bar and walked carefully to the table, standing hip-shot and arrogant a few feet away. If either of them noticed the hand he kept on the back of the nearest chair, neither mentioned it. The barkeep shrank back behind the counter, the seated figure turned another page in a thick, hide-bound notebook. Reade smirked humourlessly.

_I can play that__ game well as anyone._

Yanking out the chair he was leaning on, he sank into it with a wince, drawing a soggy deck of cards from one pocket of his dripping coat. He shuffled them idly, eyes never leaving the other man's hands as he laid them out, a scruffy solitaire grid. The notes and marks he'd scrawled across the cards blurred as he leaned back in the chair.

He complete two rows while the kid watched from the corner of his eye, was halfway through the third before he heard the kid suck in a breath and he stopped, hand resting on the last card. His fingers tingled numbly, the chill that had settled into him slowly easing in the heat of the saloon. Idly, without looking at it, his thumb traced a sigil scrawled on the back of the card, the ink dragged into the thick card so deep he could feel it. He wondered why it was that card, that sigil out of the whole deck that had the kid almost falling out of his seat.

"What does that mean?"

The kid's mumble was hoarse and he shrugged carelessly, felt his stomach flip once as pain lashed through his side. He swallowed hard and when he answered it was with a croak.

"'T's a name."

"Turn it."

He blinked, glanced over at the kid, white faced, hands visibly shaking and then finally looked down at the card and blanched. Thin streaks of blood followed his thumb, sketched the twisting sigil in black.

_Abbadon._

A shiver crawled down his spine at just the thought of the name, at the thought of what lay on the other side of the card. He pressed his hand flat against the back, wondered again why it was this card out of all of them.

_Maybe it had to be her card. Fate, destiny, whatever. Maybe it just had to be, you ever think of that Reade?_

"Turn the damn card."

The kid's voice trembled as much as his hands as he folded them in his lap. Reade sighed quietly, winced a little at another stab of pain that skated over his ribs and ignored the demand. He quirked one eyebrow at the kid, hissed as the gash across his forehead broke open and swiped irritably at the blood that trickled into his eye.

"Thanks for the drink," he muttered, slouching down in his seat. "Now you mind tellin' me who's fool enough to be out in this town tonight?"

"You killed it, didn't you?"

He frowned.

_Kid sounds angry. Huh._

"Maybe I did."

The boy relaxed faintly, the hint of tension taut across his shoulders easing and Reade grinned nastily.

"Maybe somethin' like that can't be killed."

He fell silent, waiting, shifting his fingers over the back of the card, the pattern painted there rough against his skin.

"Is… I mean, it is… can it…"

The hunter rolled his eyes.

"It's gone. Thing ain't dead, I wasn't foolin' when I said somethin' like that can't be killed but it won't be back."

"What was it?"

He eyed the younger man, long enough for him to start squirming under Reade's cold stare, dropping his own gaze to the card, still facedown on the table.

"What does it matter to you?"

"It killed a friend of mine. A good friend."

"That right," he drawled. "What's your name, kid?"

"Samuel Colt. Sam."

The hunter's eyes sharpened in recognition.

"Any relation to Christopher Colt in Massachusettes?"

"He's my father."

"You finished that gun yet?"

He smiled as Colt blushed. It was a story he'd heard a dozen times, the kid who walked into a patent office and demanded the patent, promising a model as soon as he'd made it. It was hard to balance the cocky arrogance of that fable with the stammering young man before him.

"What are you doin' in Cutter Hill, Sam Colt from Massachusetts?"

"I was looking for that… that thing."

"You heard it was here?"

Colt shook his head.

"I followed it. From Boston."

The hunter sat back, laid his hand flat on the card, covering it as the younger man's eyes strayed to it again.

"From Boston? That's quite a trail to follow, kid."

Colt shrugged, gaze too bright, his voice husky and rough when he spoke again.

"I did."

Reade sat silently for a moment, watching him. When he spoke again, the hunter's answer was quiet, surly and his movements were cold and precise.

"Nice meetin' you, Sam Colt. Thanks for the drink."

He shrugged the collar of his coat up, felt tacky blood slide over his ribs and tapped the card one last time.

"Now go on home."

He flipped the card, didn't look back as he stalked back into the storm, leaving the young man staring at the smiling woman wreathed in diamonds and flowers, her eyes blackened with crimson ink, glaring up from the perfect face.

_**Southern Wyoming**__**, **_

_**November 22**__**nd**__**, 1835**_

Dust made him sneeze, the powders burning his eyes, itching in the cuts on his fingers. He tied a feather to the fetish, pressed the heel of his hand into his eye until sparks behind the lid joined the crimson dripping from the fetish above the door. Burnt out husks of three more charms lay scattered on the threshold, the thread tying the bundles of sticks and feathers together scorched and brittle. The black powder across the doorway scattered as a rank growl blew underneath it, the line worn down little by little. Reade hefted the bag of goofer dust uncertainly, there was only enough left for three more lines at the most.

He cast a quick look at the younger man, hunched over a tiny candle in the far corner, knife in his hands flashing as he carved and carved. The hunter wondered how much gun there could be left, the pile of shavings around Colt's feet inches deep. The gunsmith's voice was whisper-hoarse, worn away by hours of chanting over the pistol, sanctifying it, weaving power into it.

Sam paused, shoulders drooping for a moment. He looked up at Reade and the hunter wanted to grimace at the sight of the younger man's pale, sweat streaked face and bloodshot eyes, sunk deep into bruised hollows. He kept his expression calm, as neutral as he could manage.

"How long, Sam?"

The kid licked cracked lips, glanced down at his hands and Reade saw them tremble.

"Hour or two. At least."

The hunter felt something clench inside him. He squeezed the bag of goofer dust again. Three lines would last half the time they needed.

"Best get to work, then," he murmured, watched Colt as the younger man turned back to his work. A tear sketched a silver trail in the candlelight, splashing onto the gun, leaving the wood dark for a long moment. Reade swallowed hard, pushed to his feet with a weary sigh and crossed to the door. Crouching, he laid a careful line, as thin as he dared, the black dust glittering for a moment before it settled. Tying the bag back onto his belt, the hunter shuffled 'round to put his back to the wall next to the door, feeling the floor vibrate under the weight of the beasts on the other side as they paced. He drew the old pepperbox from his belt, skimmed his finger over the carved butt, flicked the brighter metal of the hammer, newer than the rest of the gun.

"I never… I never killed anyone before, Joshua. Not a person."

The whisper was so faint, he barely heard it, watched as a second tear streaked through the shadows.

"I know," he answered just as quiet. He paused, cleared his throat and went on in a louder murmur. "You remember the night we met, Sam?"

The younger man nodded, didn't look up from his work.

"You saved my life that night."

"I shoulda… shoulda left you out in the street to bleed to death."

Colt shot him a look, the black humour sparking in his eyes for a moment and Reade smiled weakly.

"Maybe you should've at that. I ever tell you what that thing in Cutter Hill was?"

The younger man shook his head, eyes back on his hands.

"It was a devil. Like in the good book."

The hunter chewed his lip for a moment, not sure if telling the kid this would help him, or make it worse. Shrugging, feeling the pull of scars again, he went on.

"Devils, they can't have bodies in our world. Maybe it's different in Hell, I ain't never heard a preacher with much to say on the subject, 'cept to tell me I'm headin' straight there."

Colt chuckled and Reade grinned, the mirth fading instantly.

"So they take people. Possession, it's called. They force their way into a body and wear it, call it a 'meatsuit'. You can't kill 'em, can't even hurt 'em, really, but there's rituals that can force them out again, send them back to Hell."

"How did it slice you up the way it did?"

The hunter swallowed thickly, pressed one hand against his side, where thick scars wrapped around his ribs.

"They can… move things. Throw things, without touching them. It used a damn ploughshare."

The gunsmith winced.

"Last time I corner one in a barn," Reade muttered. "Once it was gone, what was left…" he trailed off, looked down at the gun in his hands, fingered the carvings again. feeling Colt's eyes on him, he forced himself to finish hoarsely. "She was jus' a girl. Ten, eleven maybe. There was nothin' left of her. That devil tore her up inside her head. She was already gone."

Finally, he looked up, met the younger man's shocked gaze.

"What you killed was no more human than the thing that did that to her. You understan' me? That's what knowin' all've this means, sometimes. You gotta do the stuff no-one in their right mind would ever do, 'cause only you can see what's really goin' on. He was comin' straight at you an' there wasn't anythin' else you coulda done."

Colt nodded jerkily, sniffed and wiped the back of his hand across his cheeks.

"You ever wish you could go back? Just go home again?" he mumbled. Reade cocked his head to one side, reached for the ring around his neck.

"No," he growled. "Seein' them out there is all the reason I need to keep on."

The hunter jerked a head at the younger man's hands and the gunsmith sighed, bent his head to his work again.

"You wish you didn't know, Sam?"

The knife scratched in the silence for a while, shavings tumbling to the floor.

"Sometimes," Colt admitted. "I never asked for this. But now I know… I couldn't go back. This is…" he laughed quietly, resigned. "It's a chance to do something that's important. Even if no-one's ever really gonna know about it."

The lie hung between them in the spaces between the scratching of the knife and the soft thump of the beasts' paws on the other side of the door.

Reade watched him work, spinning the ring in his fingers. He nodded slowly, tipped his head back to rest against the wall, felt one of the cougar's inches away growl softly. A few more grains of dust blew away from the line and he reached over, scraped them back into place, looked up at the fetish as it spat another bloody spark.

_You should've listened to me, Sam, when I told you to leave, _he thought tiredly, wished he knew how to say it aloud. _Then maybe you'd never've had to know any of this and you could stay alive and do somethin' important that everyone would know about._

_You should've just listened._

**A/N 2: I don't really write long authors notes until the end of a story, and since I've got quite a lot to say on this fic, I'll leave it for now. But I'll explain all those niggling little oddities at the end, and if you wanna know anything now, just buzz me! Or, you know, you could review... :D**


	2. Chapter 2 Twisted Little Man

_Kick off your high heels  
Careful where you stand  
Don't you move too close I'm a twisted little man _

_Twisted Little Man, Michael J. Sheehy_

_~~1835~~_

_-----_

_**Baxter**__**, MN,**_

_**October 15**__**th**__**, 1835**_

The whiskey was watered down.

Colt scowled into his glass, spun it idly in his fingers, watching the patterns the light made on the table. If he squinted just right, he could almost see…

"You ain't gonna drink it, give it to someone who will."

The young man frowned harder, tossed back the liquor and grimaced as it burned. He glared at the hunter as Reade dropped into the chair opposite him. The saloon was full; every large table surrounded by lively groups of miners and townspeople, yet their own table was empty. He smirked, dropped a hand under his coat, brushing his fingers across the gun on his hip. Reade rolled his eyes, downed his own whiskey and picked up the small bundle of paper he'd dropped onto the table moments earlier.

The gunsmith laced his fingers together, pulled them apart and tapped out a beat on the scarred table. The hunter read, slowly, patiently, a hint of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. It faded as he pulled a worn scrap of paper from the bundle and he sat up sharply, brows drawing together, a crease forming between them. Colt leaned forward.

"What? Reade, what is it? A hunt?"

The older man didn't answer but Colt saw his throat work as he swallowed.

"Josh? You okay?"

He stretched a hand across the table, caught at the hunter's wrist and blinked in sudden silence as he stared down the cluster of barrels. It shook, so faintly he doubted anyone else could see it. Tearing his eyes away, he gazed at the hunter, stunned to see a tic in his jaw jumping, dark eyes cold with fury.

"Get out, Sam," Reade grated and Colt flinched.

"What?"

"Go home. You've had your fun, now get on back to your folks and your damn life."

He sucked in a breath, betrayal and guilt and anger stirring together in his throat, tightening it. He'd never made any secret of his family, never hidden the letters and messages they exchanged, the promise of normalcy and a link to the real world he knew the older man couldn't share. But he'd never expected Reade to throw it in his face, never thought he'd hear such bitter jealousy in the hunter's snarl.

"What the hell are you talking about, Josh?"

Reade didn't answer, just shoved roughly to his feet, the folded, stained note clenched in one fist, the table rocking with the force of his motion. The papers scattered across it shifted, one tumbling lazily over the edge as the hunter glared down at him, fingers white around the butt of his gun for a long moment. Colt stared up at him, heard his own breathing stutter in the taut silence, felt the stares follow every movement as the older man holstered the gun with a quick, savage flick of his wrist and watched him walk out, shouldering through the crowd. The batwing-doors clattered behind the hunter, offered one last glimpse of him in the street, bloodied by the sunset as the saloon began to fill with noise again.

The table remained empty as Sam sat in stunned silence, blinking at the notes scattered across the scuffed wood in front of him, dazedly reaching down for the sheet lying by his boots. Dark ink tracked over the rough paper, spider-tracks of names he half-recognised, some he didn't, greetings and warnings and an angry, bold slash of black around an empty space on the map.

The young gunsmith stared at it for a full three minutes before he realised what he was seeing. Squeezing burning eyes shut, he shook his head clear, picked the map up and peered down at it in the dim light. Absently, he reached out for his glass, tipped it to his lips and scowled when he found it empty, then set it aside again.

"Wyoming? What the heck's in the middle of Wyoming?"

The rough, ragged circle jarred against his nerves, something about it seemed fraught, weighted with emotion he could almost taste. A shiver crawled up his spine as he realised he was _scared, _instinctively, gut-wrenchingly terrified of an empty piece of map and a circle of ink around it. His fingers shook as he gathered the rest of the papers, burying the map in the middle of them.

_Get out Sam. Go home._

He almost nodded, hesitated, then something snapped inside him, the last dregs of his anger withering in the furnace blast of borrowed fear from the paper in his hands. A year of hunting, of walking the fine line between the daylight and the real world, and he suddenly found he'd had enough.

"I'm goin', Josh," he muttered. "I'm goin'."

The saloon hushed around him again as he surged to his feet, the pressure of eyes on him never more familiar but he ignored them, pitied them as he stalked out onto the shadow-thick street. He shivered again, the hair on the back of his neck prickling, standing on end.

_What are you, a damn kid? Scared of the dark now?_

He laughed.

"Hell yeah."

Leaving the quiet echoes behind, he kicked up the reddish dust around his boots, left it drifting to the ground behind him as he crossed the street. His boots left bloody tracks on the boards as he climbed the steps to the boarding house, shouldering through the door and up the stairs. He hesitated outside the first door, tilted his head to one side, listened to the careful silence and reached out to grasp the latch. Pausing again, he sighed, left the door unopened and walked slowly to the next room, sliding inside and dropping gracelessly onto his bed. Sam shook the dust from his boots with a grimace, leaned down and reached under the frame, dragging out his pack with one hand, the other still folded around the papers. Straightening, the gunsmith hauled the pack onto the thin mattress beside him, grabbed his nightshirt from the mess of blankets and pillows and stuffed it in with the rest of his belongings. Digging into the jumbled bag, he rooted around until his fingers caught against a smooth, leather surface and he drew it out carefully, setting the papers down at his side to lift the wrapped bundle onto his lap. Flipping open the leather, the oiled hide catching the last taint of the sunset through the window, he stared down at the bits and pieces of metal within. They glittered faintly, springs and roughly shaped pins, tucked in among the parts a few bullets gleamed smoothly.

"Go home," he murmured, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. "Just go home like none of it ever happened?"

His hands suddenly sure and quick, he wrapped the leather up again, tucked it back in the bottom of his bag and shoved to his feet. Snatching the papers, his thumb riffled through them until he found the map, skin prickling into goosebumps as he pulled it to the top of the pile and swung out through the door, letting it slam closed behind him as he banged in through Reade's door.

The hunter sprawled on the bed, one boot spilling dust onto the blankets, the other dangling over the edge. He had an arm flung over his eyes, running the cord around his neck through his fingers, the note screwed up in his palm and Colt could see the ragged edges where it had torn. The gunsmith watched the other man flinch, a barely visible ripple of tension that shot from his shoulders to his boots.

"What'd'ya want, kid?"

He tried to ignore the flash of hurt at the sneer.

"I want to know what's goin' on, Josh."

Reade chuckled darkly and the sound sent a shiver down the younger man's spine.

"No. You really, really don't."

"I've ridden with you for months, Josh. I've stitched you up, I've mended your guns and I've watched your back. I deserve a damn explanation."

The hunter rolled up, boots swinging over the edge of the bed to thump onto the floor. Colt stared as he clutched the ring in his hand for a moment, then let it drop, scruffing his hand back through his hair as it dangled and bounced on the end of its cord.

"What was in the note, Josh? I found the map, what the hell's in the middle of Wyoming?"

The hunter shrugged roughly, twisted to sit sideways on the thin mattress, one knee crooked up, boot tucked under the other leg. The younger man watched him in the corner of the cloudy mirror, a narrow slice of his friend's face as it twisted into a pale mask, anger and grief echoing the sorrow in his eyes when his hand lifted absently again, touched the ring hanging from its cord around his neck.

"There's a hunter down in Colorado. Worked with him a few times, 'Shifters, mostly. Kind of his speciality. The letter was from his daughter. He's dead."

Colt sighed, the papers clutched in his hand suddenly heavy. He wandered to the table, dropped them to the scarred wood, left them fanned messily across the top.

"I'm sorry, Josh."

Reade shook his head, looking up to meet the gunsmith's eyes in the mirror and the younger man felt his blood run cold as he saw the fear behind the intent.

"He's not the first, Sam. Nearly thirty hunters, all dead in the last six months. Every last one of 'em was killed by somethin' that never should've got the drop on them. Was a were' that got Daniel and there ain't no man alive who knows 'em better than he did."

"Maybe he just slipped up, Josh. People get it wrong, sometimes –"

"Sarah said it tore its way into his home. Ran into the middle of town and ripped the door clean off its hinges. You know many were's that'd do somethin' like that? Somethin's _drivin' _them. Somethin's using the monsters to take out hunters."

"Why?"

Reade coughed out an incredulous laugh, turning to stare at him.

"Why d'you think, Sam? We're in its way, whatever it is. We can see it, and we can stop it so it's coming after us first. There's only one thing out there smart enough, as damn mean enough to do that."

Colt froze.

"A devil? You think it's a devil?"

The hunter lifted one hand, scrubbed it over his scalp as he shoved to his feet, started pacing.

"I think there ain't nothin' else that makes sense. It's gotta be somethin' damn powerful, to make a were' go into the middle of town after a hunter."

"_The _devil?"

Reade paused mid-step, looked at the younger man for a moment, wide-eyed. Then he scoffed.

"No. Ain't no such thing."

He went back to pacing and Colt watched him reach for the ring where it hung around his neck again. The bands of metal clicked together softly, in time with the hunter's steps and he found himself holding his breath, desperate not to break the hush that hung over the distant sounds of the saloon across the street. He gasped in air, saw the older man flinch at the sudden noise.

"Is it coming for us?"

He said it without thinking, habit formed over months of fighting side by side making them into a single unit in his head. Reade turned on him, fists clenched at his side again and Colt shrank back.

"Why would it come after you? You ain't no damn hunter! You're jus' some rich kid playin' in the dark for fun. You ain't gonna stand in its way, anymore'n them dancin' girls next door. Jus' get on home, back to your damn family."

The hunter spat the last words at him, turning his back to the younger man and storming to the table against the wall. Colt shook, felt his fingers curl, his own fists trembling as he fought down the angry retort bubbling behind his tongue.

"I ain't walkin' away from this, Reade."

"You should."

He could hear the effort it took to make the reply curt, angry, could see the older man's shoulders droop as he leaned against the table, one hand reaching out to stir through the papers.

"Maybe so. But I still ain't goin'."

"Then stay. 'S fine by me."

Before he could even catch enough air to protest, the hunter was gone, a few scattered notes drifting to the floor. Colt blinked; gaped, stared at them and realised the map was gone.

"Dammit."

He kept cursing all the way down the stairs and out to the street, boots pounding the wood as he sprinted and caught himself on the doorframe. Half hanging from it, he saw the hunter swinging into his saddle, the mustang he rode stamping one hoof as Reade settled one hand on the saddle-horn, twitching the reins with the other.

"Dammit, Josh, wait!"

He caught a glimpse of the older man's face, pale between the worn leather hat he wore and the upturned collar of his coat.

"Go home, Sam! Go home or stay here!"

"You're goin' after it, aren't you?"

Staggering down the steps he stretched out a hand, fingertips snagging in the mustangs' bridle.

"I can help, Josh! I can make the gun work!"

The hunter grinned wearily down at him, eyes fever bright.

"No. You can't, Sam. Not this time."

"Why do you do this? Why do you have to go after it alone?"

He clung onto the leather straps, the horse's hide rough against the backs of his fingers as he laced them through the harness. Reade touched the small lump under his shirt where Colt knew the ring the older man wore would be lying against his heart.

"Is it… Did this thing kill her?"

The gunsmith watched something slam shut in the hunter's eyes; saw a quick flicker of grief so profound it closed his throat completely. Then it was gone, just cold, dark hazel glaring down at him.

"Go home, kid. This ain't your fight, it never was."

The mustang whickered, spun out of his grasp, cantered down the main street and he stood there, watched it break into a gallop and fade into the dark that surrounded the town.

_**-----**_

_**Southern Wyoming**_

_**November 20**__**th**__**, 1835**_

He sighted along the barrel, willed his hands to stop shaking, just for a moment. Blinking away the blood that trickled into his eye he swore under his breath, dragged air into his lungs and held it. Watched the shadow slide along the low ruins of a wall, easing over tumbled stones and rotting beams with casual grace that was jarringly inhuman. From halfway up the hill, shrouded in low brush that scratched at his arms, the hunter could see the stain of ruddy light on the dark, the sullen embers of his fire banked, silhouetting the stocky horse that huffed and dozed.

Sweat prickled along his spine, turned his palms slick and the gun wavered. His vision blurred, a spike of iron hard pain driving through his head and his breath caught, his balance shaking. The blow to the back of his skull had almost been enough to end it all, crashing against his head out of nowhere as he'd picked his way back downslope after quick circuit of his camp, answer to the skin that had been prickling across the back of his neck all night.

The Anaye had been watching him, waiting for him to crawl out of his warm bedroll and sneak into the trees and rocks that they haunted and his lips curled in a snarl.

_Freakin' rookie mistake, Josh, _he chided himself, knew how lucky he was to have woken up at all. He'd heard just the faintest scuff of hide on stone, the sound screaming against over-stretched instincts and he'd turned and fired before he even registered the pain of the blow, the dead weight of the Anaye crushing him as they both fell.

He shivered, wishing for the long coat he could see, still bundled beside the embers where he'd been sleeping minutes earlier. Tightening his fingers around the grip of the gun, he blinked deliberately, aimed, a steady whisper murmuring in the back of his head.

_Screw this up and you're dead, Reade. You don't take that thing out with the first shot it'll just take __Kaya for meat and you'll be left stranded in the damn desert._

He squeezed the trigger gently, pushing cold air out through his lips, trying to see through the shaking, double images of his campsite and the monster creeping up on it.

The thunder of the gunshot slammed back from the hills, echoing around the small valley. The horse snorted, came awake kicking out at the carcass under her feet and on the hill, Reade stared down at his cold, unfired gun dumbly. The world titled around him, the slope suddenly a wall, gravity tipped on its side and he fell forward, reached out for the ground and found a warm, strong arm instead. The last thing he saw as the dark closed in were familiar cool, blue eyes glaring angrily down at him, glittering too brightly in the moonlight.

"Stupid ass. You damn stubborn, stupid ass."

The mumble dragged him out of the shadows and he felt himself moving, feet bouncing over rough ground. Something wrapped like iron around his arms and chest, the bruises on his ribs aching fiercely under the tight grip and his head lolled forward. The mumble continued, he felt it shake through his shoulders, pulled back into a strong chest.

"Gonna go get yourself killed for no damn reason. _God_dammit. Stubborn, stupid, reckless _ass."_

He frowned, figured he ought to answer.

"Y' said tha' a'ready."

The voice laughed bitterly but the iron grip around his chest shifted and something warm closed around his wrist, holding on tight for a moment.

"I know. Sorry."

"'S alrigh'."

"Get some rest."

He sighed, started to drift away again, forced out a mumble before the world slipped through his fingers.

"Thanks, Sam."

"Feeling better?"

The hunter blinked, yawned and sagged against the doorframe, squinting and flinching away as he leaned into the sunlight, streaming between the neat, plain curtains half-drawn across the window. He took in the small room with a slow glance, sturdy furniture tucked back against the rough walls, a faded rug on the floor, a few muddy bootprints tracking back and forth across the boards. He squinted, caught a hazy memory of watching his feet bump over them, being carried and lifted to a bed that was more dust than mattress and felt like heaven. Then nothing until he'd woken up, stretched out prone on the same thin, rancid mattress, his back one solid bruise, his head throbbing.

"Yeah."

He rubbed one hand gingerly over his scalp, wincing as his fingers found the lump on the back of his skull. Rolling his shoulder around the doorframe, he wandered unsteadily to the table in the middle of the room. Colt kicked a chair out, watched Reade silently as he sank onto it with a quiet groan. Propping his elbows on the table, the older man yawned again, rolled his shoulders and looked back at him blearily. He dragged a smile from somewhere, looked back down at the shreds and scraps of metal in his hands, spread out across the table in front of him.

"Good."

"You worried, Sam?"

It was light, teasing but there was an edge to it, a hint of a razor sharp bite shimmering under the taunt. His hands stilled.

"Maybe," he murmured. Unspoken; _I came after you, didn't I?_

In the corner of his eye, he saw the hunter's hand curl into a fist against the edge of the table.

"You should've gone home, Sam."

"I had, you'd be dinner by now. You and that damn horse both."

"Leave her out of it."

Colt snorted and Reade smirked. It faded as he stared at the fragments of work on the table.

"I mean it, Sam. You should get out now."

"You think I rode all the way out here, across three states just to save your backside and then leave?"

"Sam. They'll kill you just for bein' here."

Colt stopped fiddling with the pins under his fingers, sighed over them, staring into the cold, empty fireplace.

"They've been killing hunters for six months, you said."

"Yeah."

"Because hunters are getting in their way? In that devil's way?"

"So you should get out before they come, Sam. You're a kid, you should go back to your folks, go and make that gun."

The younger man turned at last, scowled at the hunter.

"Reade, do you really think they'd let me leave?"

"What?"

"I've killed them. I'm making a gun that can kill _anything. _You really think they're just going to let me go home?"

He saw the older man's tiny flinch at the word from the corner of his eye, regretted it instantly but he couldn't stop.

"I'm stuck right in the middle of this, Josh, and there's no way out except right through the middle of _them."_

Sam finally looked over, saw Reade staring at him, eyes wide and open to the hurt he'd never explained but that the gunsmith had pieced together bit by bit. A sheriff in Pittsburg told him the hunter was from Texas, had been a ranch hand once on the run over the badlands to Fort Worth, a wife waiting at home until he just upped and disappeared for three years at the end of a drive. Rumours whispered over bars across Illinois, Missouri, Nebraska, all telling the same story, _They say his wife caught some sort of sickness and he killed her. Folks'll tell you it was a fever, but… It wasn't no fever that made a neighbour swear blind her eyes were black that night. _

He wondered if the hunter even knew his hand had drifted to the ring on its cord about his neck, spinning it around the tip of his finger, scrubbing at the pale band with his thumb. Reade stared at him for a long, silent minute, abruptly jerked his gaze away and Sam ducked his head, barely heard the ragged whisper as the older man scraped his chair back across the worn floor.

"Then I guess we're goin' down fightin'."

Reade stood stiffly, rolled his shoulders, trying to work loose the heavy ache across his back. He watched the gunsmith bend back to the gun, spread in pieces across the table, metal chiming softly under his fingers.

"Damn fool kid," he breathed, so softly, Colt couldn't hear this time. Blowing out a breath between his teeth, the hunter turned, ignored the way the world lurched under him as his head throbbed sharply.

"We'll head out at dusk," he called over his shoulder, pushing through the door into the blessedly darker main room of the tiny cabin and heading for the bedroom opposite, one hand dropping to its familiar place against the gun on his hip. He flipped up the top of his saddlebags, draped over the bedpost, started rummaging inside, pulling out the Mustang-hide bag, feeling the slight weight inside shift.

"Swing up by Fish Creek, get some more rounds made up."

He dragged free a larger pouch, worked the knot fastening it open and peered inside at the black powder, nodding once, wincing when lights sparked behind his eyes.

"Dammit," he muttered, leaned against the bed, finally slid down the leg to sit on the floor. He kicked out at the door with one boot, watched it swing lazily closed and in the dark room, with no-one to see, let his aching head drop forward onto one upraised knee. He reached up to where the ring on his necklace was warm against his skin, rubbed at it gently, swallowed back the burn in his throat.

_I miss you, Ellie. I'm so damn tired and it's so damn cold without you._

He dragged in air until his lungs were straining, let it out slowly, felt the sorrow drain away with it until he was empty again. His knees cracked loudly as he stood and he grimaced, stretched gingerly, felt the winter settling into him and grinned savagely.

"I ain't ever getting' old," he whispered, turned back to his bags and pulled out a handful of rounds.

That was when the first howl tore the quiet in two.

The hunter froze, fingers white around the bullets, skin crawling, eyes darting everywhere. He waited, forced his lungs to work slowly, steadily, despite his pounding heartbeat. Counted off three more unearthly cries before he snatched up his bags and bolted for the door, wrenching it open as Colt stumbled into the main room.

"Reade? What is it?"

The hunter herded the younger man to the main door, his pepperbox drawn and cocked, saddlebags slung over his shoulder.

"I don't know. But it's time we were gone."

The two men slipped out into the afternoon, headed for the small corral where their horses waited, trembling legs and rolling eyes. Reade skimmed a hand over his mare's flanks, waited as Colt mounted before swinging up bareback onto the Mustang. She shivered under him, shied away when he turned her to the half open gate and he let her, knew she could sense them when he couldn't. Instead of running, both horses trod anxiously in the centre of the paddock and the hunter swung around, eyeing the fence.

"Dammit."

"What's wrong?"

Reade slanted a look at the other man, tipped his head at the undergrowth a few metres away. He saw the moment Colt figured it out, saw the colour drain from his face, saw his eyes go hollow with fear.

"We're surrounded."

"Yeah." He laughed suddenly, bitterly, watched the younger man frown at him worriedly. "You wanted to fight your way out through the middle of them, kid. Looks like this is where it begins. Come on!" He yelled the last, left Sam's stunned anger behind as he dug his knees into the mare's flanks and pushed her into a run at the fence. She whuffed but jumped it easily, the low thunder of hoofbeats behind him reassuring as he ducked low over the horses neck, gun lined up with his sight.

"C'mon, Kaya. Easy girl," he soothed, his free hand working into her mane, patting as he anchored himself. They crashed through the scrub and he caught a glimpse of something low to the ground, white eyes in a dark face that was too human then it was gone, left behind as he steered them left, searching out a trail where the horses could run full-out.

"Reade?"

"You keep up, boy! Hear me? You stay right behind me!"

He grinned as he heard the gunsmith curse breathlessly, tucked closer to the mare's neck as a branch whipped at his hair. He realised then that he'd left his hat in the cabin, scowled and swore himself.

"READE!"

Colt's cry was almost lost under the horse's scream and Reade twisted to look back over his shoulder, saw the gunsmith fall as his mount reared, something dark and jagged tearing a ragged hole in its chest. It screamed again, toppled sideways as the hunter spun his mare and sent her charging back down the trail, already leaning sideways, one arm outstretched to the younger man. The widening of Colt's eyes was all the warning he had before the mustang crumpled under him, sliding loosely to her knees. He threw himself clear, landed hard and rolled, gasping in dust and a rank smell of wet fur until he hit something rigid and unyielding. Choking, adrenaline running wild, he shoved to his knees and stared around him, saw the two horses lying still and bloody on the ground, Colt scrambling towards him, a shadow behind the younger man reaching out.

"Sam!"

The gunsmith dropped, turned, yanking his own pistol from his belt and Reade saw him hesitate, saw the man crouching over him, eyes dark, laughing cruelly.

"Sam, shoot! For god's sake, _shoot!"_

The gun roared and the man, filthy and draped in tattered hides, flew backwards, landed twitching in the dust. The hunter clambered up, over to the slowly stilling figure, felt the younger man's eyes on him as he quickly grabbed a handful of stinking furs and rolled the weight over. A blank stare gazed past him and he flinched, let the dead man fall again.

"Josh?"

He turned quickly, stumbled to a stop as he saw Colt, stalled halfway to his knees, one shaking hand still outstretched, clutching the smoking gun.

"Sam," he said softly, easing forward another step, freezing again as the younger man cringed. "Sam, it's alright. Put the gun down, come on." They had to get back to the cabin, he felt exposed, the back of his neck tight with the weight of adrenaline singing through his veins.

"Josh?"

"Sam, come on."

Reade swallowed hard, reached out for the gun and wrapped his hand around the warm barrel, tugging it free as the gunsmith turned shell-shocked eyes on him, breathed his name like a prayer for a third time. He suddenly looked terribly, achingly young, all of the wonder drained from him. Something cracked loudly in the bushes behind them and Reade started, growled harshly under his breath.

"_Sam!" _

Colt jumped, blinked hard and shuddered, pulling away, leaving the gun in the hunter's hand. The older man turned, fired once at the shape lunging at him through the undergrowth, too-long arms bending the wrong way as joints realigned and shifted, caught half-changed by the silver.

"Come on," he snarled, reached back and grabbed Colt's wrist, dragging the gunsmith with him as he broke into a run back along the trail they'd crashed through the thin forest. As they broke into the clearing, something behind them cried out, a thick, coughing roar that made his knees buckle for an instant. He threw himself forward, turned the stumble into a sprint for the cabin, slammed through the door already digging in his saddlebags, still slung over one shoulder. His fingers caught on raw hide and feathers and he snatched it out of the bag, spun. The instant the fetish touched the door, it burned white, cold fire itching against his palm, sparks tumbling lazily down as the scarred wood trembled.

"Josh?"

Reade put his shoulder to the door, fumbled with his free hand for a nail in his bag, spared the younger man a glance. The gunsmith was chalk-white, eyes huge and dark in his face, a long, raw scratch trailing from one temple down to his jaw.

"You best start workin', Sam," he murmured, shifting awkwardly to pin the fetish in place, hammering the nail with the butt of his gun. He saw Colt flinch, scowl a little at the misuse and smirked. "I break it, you can fix it for me later, alright?"

"You break it, you can fix it yourself," Sam answered, backing away from the door. Reade, felt the wood shudder against his shoulder and swore under his breath.

_Ain't no way out of this one, Josh. Got yourselves pinned down but good._

The hunter put his back to the wall, watched the fetish on the door spit white sparks and as a howl tore the hush apart.

_**-----**_

_**Southern Wyoming,**_

_**November 22**__**nd**__**, 1835**_

"That's the last of the goofer dust, Sam!"

Colt grunted an answer, paused to swipe one arm across his brow, mopping away the sweat trickling into his eyes. He could hear the hunter checking the rounds in his pepperbox, quiet scratching and clicking noises that somehow penetrated the humming in his ears, a constant whine of power that thrummed down into his fingers as he carved and smoothed the wood. He'd stopped jumping at every muffled crash from the other side of the door, couldn't quite stop flinching every time they roared but he kept working, chanting the rituals that had taken him a year to find and adapt, kept infusing the gun with the power that buzzed along his nerves.

His blood stained the pentagram carved into the grip and his fingers tingled and numbed as he screwed the main spring against the trigger guard, started shaking as he slipped the ejector head into the hammer and eased it into the frame that made up the base of the revolver. He stopped, set the half-completed gun down on the table, carefully, wiping his hands dry on his thighs as he looked up, saw the hunter's gaze flickering between the shuddering door and and the fireplace, burning hot and – Colt swallowed hard. The flames were blue.

Reade's eyes found his, wide and bright.

"It ready?"

"Almost."

The hunter nodded.

"Best hurry. They ain't gonna wait long."

Something slammed against the door, the heavy crash making both men jump and Reade turned, lifted his gun, aim unerringly steady. Sam turned back to the parts of the revolver, licked dry lips and bent over his work again, wouldn't let himself hear the sound of splintering wood, the thunder of the pepperbox firing, over and over, the hunter's strained cry, rough with fury and hurt.

He just kept going, hands working mechanically, automatically, clicking the cylinder into the frame and slotting the stock up against it, tightening the backstrap screws with a quick twist. He'd built this gun a hundred times in his head, put together a thousand more just like it in his father's factories, told himself it didn't matter that his vision was blurred, his cheeks himself it didn't matter when the fire and all the lanterns went out, snuffed in a blast of air that plastered his shirt against his skin and snatched his breath away, dried the tears on his cheeks in an instant.

When it died, as suddenly as it came, it took all the sound with it. For a moment, he blinked, thought maybe he'd been deafened but he could still hear his heart pounding in his head, breath sawing in and out of his lungs.

He looked up, found the hunter's gaze again.

"Josh?"

The older man shrugged uneasily, reloaded.

"No clue. Keep working, kid."

"It's - " _finished, _he started to say, never had a chance to finish as something slammed into his chest and knocked him sprawling backwards. He heard three shots, a startled yelp and a heavy thud and craned his head up, saw Reade sliding limply down the wall, pepperbox smoking in his hand. Scrambling to his feet, Colt lunged for the table, snatched at the gun and glared down the length of the barrel.

The slim, short woman smiled back at him, dusted idly at the ragged bulletholes in her dress, pale, unmarked skin beneath.

"_Devils, they can't have bodies in our world. So they take people. Possession, it's called. They force their way into a body and wear it, call it a 'meatsuit'. You can't kill 'em, can't even hurt 'em, really, but there's rituals that can force them out again, send them back to Hell."_

"You're a devil," he blurted, saw her laugh silently, slide a grin at Reade where he scowled up at her from the floor.

"You've trained him well, Joshua."

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spirit – "

"Oh, shut up."

She waved a hand and Colt felt the air shift, turn hot against his skin, metallic on his tongue as Reade cried out. He flinched, shrank back against the edge of the table, free hand seeking it out and latching onto it as his knees loosened.

She turned to him, paced slowly forward to the edge of the rotting, threadbare rug underneath the table and stopped, toes just brushing the edge. The gunsmith stared at her, at the pale band ringing her finger, the mark where metal used to lie against skin and she followed his gaze, waggled her hand.

"He never told you, did he?" The younger man tore his eyes away from her hand, saw Reade grab for the leather around his neck and she swaggered as she circled the rug, smirking at him.

"Get out of her."

"Ask nicely,"she retorted, sneering.

"Get the hell out of her, you whore."

She turned her attention back to Colt, tilted her head to one side.

"What did he say, Samuel?"

"Nothing. He never told me anything.

"But you know anyway, don't you."

"There's... stories. Rumours." He couldn't look at Reade, something like betrayal coiling in his throat, straining his voice. "They say..."

He trailed off, dragged his gaze to the rug under his boots, the faded pattern barely visible, saw the faintest scuff of chalk under one edge. She toed at the wood beside it and he felt her smile crawl over his skin as she finished the confession for him.

"You went and asked them, the storytellers and the gossip mongers, and they told you he killed me, didn't they? They said he came home from the droving and found his darling wife watching over the body of their son with black eyes and his blood still on her hands. And they said he killed me, shot me right between the eyes, put me down like a mad dog."

He whispered, "Yes," heard the other man sag back against the joint of wall and floor and lifted his head again, until he stared helplessly into inky black.

She leaned in, breathed softly, "They were right."

The gun was heavy in his hand, as if it was chained down and he shook with the effort of aiming it, shook as she took a lazy step back, spread her arms.

"Go ahead, Samuel. Shoot me, just like you shot that man out there."

"He wasn't a man."

He almost didn't recognise his own voice, so hoarse and ragged, vision blurring until he saw trees and something reaching for him, dark skin under black fur and blue, blue eyes that looked right through him.

"He was enough of a man, Samuel. He had dreams. He wanted to go home, back to his people."

_Home. _

"_Go home, kid. This ain't your fight, it never was."_

"It was always my fight," he murmured, cocked the gun and fired blind.

And heard Reade swear, loudly.

"Goddammit, Sam!"

He blinked his eyes open, saw her staring at him, black gaze shocked, smoke trailing from the scorched bullethole in her chest. Looked down at the gun, rising panic choking him.

_I thought it was finished. It didn't work, why didn't it work? I thought it was finished!_

"I felt it."

His attention snapped back to the demon standing in front of him again, one hand lifted a little, fingers splayed in the air.

"I _felt it. _What have you done?"

Her voice rose, beat at the air and the charred logs in the fireplace burst into flames again, fire licking at the mantle. She flicked her hand and he ducked, grinned when he wasn't thrown across the room.

"_You whoreson, what have you done?!"_

Her hiss choked the room with smoke and Colt watched her crouch, flip up the rug and gape at the sigil chalked onto the boards.

"You can't cross it, devil. Or your power. He's safe."

She spun to her feet, eyes flickering black as she stalked towards the hunter, still sprawled on the floor. Reade grinned, clutched at the ring on its thong until the dulled edges dug deeply into his palm as her fist knotted into his shirt and she lifted him effortlessly, slammed him back into the wall.

"Josh!"

"Stay in the circle! Finish it!" he ground out, tasted blood as her fist crashed into his face, split his cheek open.

"I'll kill him! I'll beat him to death while you watch!"

Somehow, it made it easier to hear her snarling the threat at the gunsmith, twisting the voice he'd dreamed of for so long into something foul and he smiled tiredly as she jerked him down, drove her knee up into his ribs. Something snapped, bright pain sparking behind his eyes as she hurled him across the cabin and a dull roar erupted behind his ears when he hit the wall, hard.

He blinked, eyes heavy, losing time between each one, so it seemed that he watched her move towards him in stuttering snap shots and couldn't help but think that it made her look like a spirit. He coughed wetly, felt something shift in his ribs and hissed, saw the gunsmith straighten and take a hesitant step to the edge of the circle. Reade shook his head, spat blood to the floor. Breathed, "Finish it," and watched the younger man flinch and nod roughly, dragging a hand across his face. She stopped a stride away, fists clenched at her sides, shaking with rage. _Finish it._

"_I'll tear him apart!"_

Claws ripped at him as she shrieked it, tore at his skin from the inside out and he choked down a cry, saw Colt turn back to the table before the pain snatched the world away, an endless moment of a void that seared him, body and soul.

Distantly, he heard a scream, barely recognised it as his own, knew somewhere that his hands locked around a trigger that just wasn't there, instinct clutching at empty air, the dove carvings as tangible to his skin as if he was holding the gun instead of nothing.

When the gunshot ripped through the cabin, he almost felt the recoil, forced his eyes open and saw her spinning, dropping, saw Colt standing in the middle of the circle, the revolver smoking in his hand again. Black blood stained the floor, boiled to steam where it touched the chalk circle and he stared hard at the gunsmith, felt his heart break in two.

"Is it done?"

His whisper was ragged, thin and it sounded like thunder in the silence.

Colt shook his head, like he was trying to clear water out of his ears and Reade dragged himself to his knees.

"Is it _done?"_ he asked again, louder, even though it left him breathless, blood thick in his throat.

"No," the younger man answered. "The circle... It's..."

"Sam? Sam, don't. You stay in that circle." He reached blindly for the wall behind him, felt her laugh shiver through the wood, watched the younger man shake his head again and shift his fingers on the carved butt of the gun.

"It's stopping the power, somehow."

"Don't, Sam!"

Slowly, carefully, Colt stepped over the chalk line, lifting the gun and pulling the trigger as she stood, surged towards him. The shot went wild, shattered the window, the backlash of power tumbling the hunter back into the wall again and he cried out, felt fresh blood well up over and inside his skin. Panting, he heard a gasp, a loud clatter and a heavy thud and knew before he lifted his head, that he'd see the gunsmith pinned against the wall.

She stood in front of him, one hand outstretched, blood dripping from the other to spatter on the floor in front of the hearth.

Colt cried out as she stepped closer, flames licking out around the fireplace again, burning white as they traced curves across the walls, left them scorched and smoking.

"Oh, this is perfect," she purred and Reade blinked, shook away the memory of a sunlit field and the woman he loved at his side as he told her that he would build her a home, right here.

She looked back over her shoulder, smiled at him and his stomach lurched.

"Didn't you wonder, Joshua? Why here? I know you saw it, all those hunters I killed."

"Why?"

The effort left him panting, clinging to the wall, hunched against it but he wouldn't look away.

"It's a gateway. Or it will be, once it's _baptised," _she spat the word out as if it tasted bad. "All I need is a sacrifice. Spill his blood here and the gate will open, and my God can walk free again."

"Your God?"

It was Colt, shaking, blood trickling down the side of his neck and she turned back to him. Reade sagged, sucked in air in heaving gasps.

"Yes, Samuel. My God. My Father. The Lightbringer. And when he's here, your gun won't matter, not at all."

She smiled, Reade knew the tilt of her head as well as he knew his own fury, and the flames surged up, wound across the wall, licked at cloth and skin and the floor started shaking. It trembled underneath his palm as he flattened one hand against the boards, pushed up with a groan, couldn't manage more than his knees and started crawling. He shuddered, flinched with every scream, shut his eyes to the light that flickered across the floor, threw shadows that danced and writhed across his eyelids. The shaking of the floor grew, a steady rumble rising up, brimstone heavy on the air until he couldn't breathe it anymore, until wood splintered and cracked and blinding light seared his eyes behind their lids, brushed against his skin like knives, like claws as he crawled through it.

"God..."

He croaked it out, half plea, half curse as he choked, arms trembling, the rush of blood in his ears fading and he almost didn't hear the answer.

"Josh! You gotta keep going!"

Reade shook his head, let it hang low between his shoulders, sweat and tears and blood dripping from his chin.

"It can kill the devil inside her!"

His sides heaved in a sobbing gasp as he sank lower, brow almost touching the wood.

"Josh, you can _save _her."

He dragged his head up, found her silhouette against the light and lunged forward, fingertips brushing metal instead of wood.

The hunter snatched at the gun, eyes snapping open, fear and agony washed away in a rush of adrenaline as he rolled to his knees again, pulled the trigger with every sluggish beat of his heart.

_Once._

The rumbling stopped, left the echoes of screams quiet in its wake and he saw a glow flicker beneath her skin, gold lightening arcing around the bullet wound in between her eyes. Squeezed his own shut and saw a sunlit field again, white clouds against a clear sky and her smile above him.

_Twice._

The floor steadied, almost violent quaking subsiding and he felt warm arms wrap around him, pull him close, the scent of flowers cutting clean and sharp through the blood and brimstone.

_Three times._

The fire blinked out, and Reade let go, tumbled down into the dark.


	3. Chapter 3 One Hand On The Bottle

_Two roads to travel and  
I chose the wrong one,  
going down the lost highway  
with my back to the sun. _

_Fallen From Grace, Mark Lee Scott_

_~~1835~~_

Someone was screaming, and from the rawness in his throat he thought it should be him. But there was no air in his lungs, didn't seem like there was any anywhere at all as he gasped and choked on nothing so it couldn't be him. There was something hard and unyielding against his back, rough splinters driving into his hands as he clawed at it, trying to find a way out, a way _away _from the fire that was curling up around him, licking at his clothes like it was a living thing, tasting him.

Testing him, _'To see if I'm cooked,' _he thought, a giggle burbling up his seared, scorched throat and he would have given in to the hysteria if he could find breath to do it. But someone was still screaming, and the wall he was pinned against was shaking, shuddering hard and the flames were gouging at his skin, digging in, biting deep and finally, finally there was air, smokey and sulphuric and nauseatingly heavy with the taint of roasting meat but he sucked it down and screamed it out. Felt the fire burn across his arms and legs, across his chest and he knew without seeing that it wasn't just random shapes, the sigils turned frigid as soon as they were complete, turned to frozen knives driving down to the bone.

The wall shook harder, slammed against him and he saw stars as the back of his skull cracked against it. Dazed, for a moment the pain retreated, pulled away to a distance and he sagged against the invisible force pressing into the wood, dragged in foetid air and blinked his eyes clear.

He peered through the smoke and flames and saw _her, _smiling, head thrown back and arms wide, the floor beneath her writhing, rippling until the boards began to crack and tear themselves apart and the fire gnawing at him froze, turned almost solid, unmoving. Baking heat rippled from it, pounded against him, searing in the burns already blistering his skin. The sound of screaming grew louder, uncountable voices howling out unimaginable pain and tears streamed down his cheeks at the sound. Light streamed through the shattering floor, blinding white that scraped across his nerves and churned his stomach and if he'd had anywhere to go, he would have run.

_The Lightbringer._

"No," he coughed out, voice burned away as he choked, heard her laugh and shook his head helplessly. _"No."_

And saw a shape, a shadow against the light, low down.

_Reade._

Colt threw himself against the force pinning him to the wall, heedless of the flames that wrapped themselves around his arms, started enveloping him. His gaze locked to the figure crawling across the shuddering floor towards the gun, forgotten at the edge of the circle.

The hunter never looked up, not once, not even when the devil started laughing again, the sound bright and cheerful.

"_They force their way into a body and wear it, call it a 'meatsuit'."_

Colt tried not to flinch at the echo in his mind, couldn't quite manage it as he realised, finally, what the older man had been talking about all along.

"I thought you killed her," he breathed, saw tears drip from the older man's chin to the bucking floor unheeded. "God help us, I thought you just killed her."

The light spread, flickered, as if it fell through storm-tossed branches. _Or wings, _he thought, shoved a wave of panic back down to the pit of his stomach. A line of white arced towards him, lashed across the back of his hand and he hissed, felt wet heat slide over his fingers.

Looked down, saw blood flowing quickly from a clean slice across his knuckles, swallowed thickly as it spattered to the floor, turned to vapour in an instant.

"_God..."_

His head snapped back up at the hunter's choked cry and he saw Reade start to fold, black pooling beneath him, arms visibly shaking.

"Josh! You gotta keep going!"

Colt's gaze darted back to the woman, oblivious as she revelled in the touch of the light. The hunter shook his head and he cried out again, "It can kill the devil inside her!"

Reade gasped, sobbed, sank down to the shadow spreading beneath him and Colt felt tears turn to steam on his cheeks. He licked his lips, dried in the heat that poured from the motionless flames surrounding him and felt his heart break as he whispered, "Josh, you can _save _her."

The hunter looked up at last, searching, and the gunsmith watched his lips twitch up in a parody of a smile as he lunged for the gun, rolled to his knees and fired.

Colt felt himself fall, heard the reports slam together as he hit the floor, hard, driving the breath from his lungs. He lay in a crumpled heap, gaping, muscles twitching as he tried to remember how to breathe, glared into the darkness so sudden it left him blinded with afterimages that danced across his eyes, like he'd stared too long at the sun. The silence was complete, ringing in his ears, just the pounding rush of his heart and the screaming of nerves seared raw to deafen him.

He moaned breathlessly as he untangled arms and legs, rolled to his knees, one shoulder propped against the wall. Liquid slipped over his skin, stung the blisters that circled around his chest and abdomen and limbs, and he shivered in reaction.

Croaked out, "Josh?" Hesitant and low and only more silence answered him. He lifted one hand, curled loosely the way the hunter had shown him, ready to slap away a blow or tighten to a fist and return it. Blinking hard, he took a moment to just breathe, shove down the pain that was ramping up with every gasp and slowly turn his head, seeking out the small window high on the wall beside him.

The thin moon and faint stars grounded him, easing the swaying he hadn't even noticed, he'd been so blind. He squeezed his eyes shut on them, counted slowly to five and when he opened them again he could see the silver flickering along the edges of the shattered glass lining the window frame, catching on splintered floorboards and the edge of the table.

Colt straightened, scanned the room, mouth turning arid when he saw her, crumpled motionless on the floor. Grey eyes stared at nothing, blood trickling black from them, from the wound between them, small and neat.

_And they said he killed me, shot me right between the eyes, put me down like a mad dog._

He scrubbed the back of a hand across his cheeks, smeared the tears away and looked past her, to the shadows beneath the table.

Started crawling, ignoring the splinters that gouged at his hands and knees, the crushed wood crumbling under his weight. He skirted the worst of it, blind instinct he barely recognised, a creeping sense of _wrong _that filled the air above the middle of the floor like the tang of brimstone he could still taste. As he edged past it, he thought he heard screaming, faint and distant and his blood ran cold.

"It's not closed," he murmured, startled at the sound of his own voice. Knew he was right, but set it aside for a while, dragged himself on over the floor that seemed so big, suddenly.

He found the gun first, barrel still warm as his fingers closed around it, worked it gently free of the grasp, set it carefully at his side.

"Josh? You alright?"

Colt skimmed his hands along the hunter's sleeve, found a shoulder and hunched closer.

"Josh, answer me. Please."

Shifting, he tugged the still form closer, into the thin light that seemed to get brighter, his eyes adjusting to the gloom.

"No. Goddammit, no," he rasped, pressed two shaking fingers under the older man's jaw, felt cool skin, no beat fluttering against his and he bowed his head, suddenly too heavy to hold up, saw Reade's hand, locked around the ring on its leather thong and reached down, wrapped his own fist around it, knuckles white.

Later, he knew he'd have to do something about the _wrongness _still beating on the air behind him, the echo of screams and the taint of brimstone. The gate his blood had opened wasn't quite shut, not all the way and even as he huddled on the floor, curled around Reade's body, he wondered distantly what might crawl out through the gap.

"Pentagram, maybe," he murmured, lips twitching up in a tremulous, mirthless smile. Remembered, _"For Chrissakes, Sam –", _the hunter sprawled on a pile of hay, irritation turning to shocked wonder. _"What if you had a gun that could kill anything?" _He reached out, found the gun in the dark and clutched it tight. Saw the answer in his head, drawn on the scuffed map, the five-pointed star laid out, tiny crosses at each point, big enough that no-one who didn't know what they were looking at would see it for what it was. "A big, a _really _big pentagram. Some sort of sanctified ground at each apex. Churches, maybe. And a railway running between them. Iron rails, to make it stronger, so nothin' can get through."

Colt shivered, distant fire curling along his blistered skin but he didn't notice it, didn't notice the sting of salt in the raw wounds on his cheeks as he sat in the dark, hand wrapped around the hunter's as the sun began to gild the horizon, touched the shattered glass in the window with gold and set the sky ablaze.

_**A/N: Well, there you have it. It didn't exactly go where I thought it would, and there were a few more twists and turns and oh-my-god-W-T-H?!?! moments than I expected, but this albatross has finally flown the nest. **_

_**This story was always intended to be a 'death' fic, but I was really surprised at how sad it was to write the end of Joshua Reade. I may drop back in to this verse some day – the further adventures of Colt and Reade could be some mighty fine fun to write! **_

_**Last, but most definitely not least:**_

_**I owe the hugest of world-record-breakingly-huge THANK YOUs to my lurkers.I was blown away at the end of last year to receive The Gamble award over on UnGen, so this last chapter is all for you guys – you're quiet and shy and I only wish I could thank you in person, but for now, this'll have to do. Though I hope you'll drop in and say 'hi' some day!**_

**Geek on: **

**Just a few notes (*ahem*) about some of the period details in this story.**

_**The music:**_** I always, always write to music, and in all but a very few stories it features heavily in the content as well. However, because the setting for this fic is so different, I wanted to use music that was, at least in style, appropriate. Which was kind of a hurdle, since my usual taste is anything but appropriate to 1830's America! Solution? The awesome show Deadwood – starring, of course, Mr. Jim Beaver. The music for Deadwood is beautiful, haunting at times, hilarious at others, it fit this story so perfectly I just had to use it. 'The Unfortunate Rake' appears in the show itself., and the lyrics, funny and a little sad again, seemed so perfectly Reade like...**

As I was a-walking down by St. James' Hospital, I was a-walking down by there one day, What should I spy but one of my comrades All wrapped up in flannel though warm was the day. I asked him what ailed him, I asked him what failed him, I asked him the cause of all his complaint. "It's all on account of some handsome young woman, 'Tis she that has caused me to weep and lament. "And had she but told me before she disordered me, Had she but told me of it in time, I might have got pills and salts of white mercury, But now I'm cut down in the height of my prime. "Get six young soldiers to carry my coffin, Six young girls to sing me a song, And each of them carry a bunch of green laurel So they don't smell me as they bear me along. "Don't muffle your drums and play your fifes merrily, Play a quick march as you carry me along, And fire your bright muskets all over my coffin, Saying: There goes an unfortunate lad to his home."

_**The guns:**_

** The Colt, of course, I think this is the only thing that comes up in both this story and supernatural. But it was brand new in the 1830's, plausibly the first of it's kind. (The story about Colt and the patent is historical, by the way, although how much truth there is in it...) **

** Reade's gun:A pepperbox was a type of early, multi-shot pistol. It fired rounds through three or more barrels, rather than rotating a chamber into line with a single barrel like a revolver. Often wildly inaccurate, it was still the weapon of choice until the Civil War. The gun Reade carries is an Allen & Thurber Massachusetts, customised for a quick draw. Cookies of choice to anyone who spotted the TV reference...**

**Last one, I promise: **

_**The Zoetrope **_**– an early form of moving picture, involving images painted inside a drum. (You know the sort of thing!) It didn't become common until the 1860s, but the modern zoetrope was invented in 1833, so I pinched it. **


End file.
